but must be placed somewhere； or their feelings
would be hurt。 So many volumes had been written about
the poet since his death that she had also to dispose of
a great number of misstatements； which involved minute
researches and much correspondence。 Sometimes
Katharine brooded； half crushed； among her papers； sometimes
she felt that it was necessary for her very existence
that she should free herself from the past； at others； that
the past had pletely displaced the present； which；
when one resumed life after a morning among the dead；
proved to be of an utterly thin and inferior position。
The worst of it was that she had no aptitude for literature。
She did not like phrases。 She had even some natural
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Night and Day
antipathy to that process of selfexamination； that perpetual
effort to understand one’s own feeling； and express
it beautifully； fitly； or energetically in language；
which constituted so great a part of her mother’s existence。
She was； on the contrary； inclined to be silent； she
shrank from expressing herself even in talk； let alone in
writing。 As this disposition was highly convenient in a
family much given to the manufacture of phrases； and
seemed to argue a corresponding capacity for action； she
was； from her childhood even； put in charge of household
affairs。 She had the reputation； which nothing in
her manner contradicted； of being the most practical of
people。 Ordering meals； directing servants； paying bills；
and so contriving that every clock ticked more or less
accurately in time； and a number of vases were always
full of fresh flowers was supposed to be a natural endowment
of hers； and； indeed； Mrs。 Hilbery often observed
that it was poetry the wrong side out。 From a very early
age； too； she had to exert herself in another capacity；
she had to counsel and help and generally sustain her
mother。 Mrs。 Hilbery would have been perfectly well able
to sustain herself if the world had been what the world is
not。 She was beautifully adapted for life in another pla。
But the natural genius she had for conducting affairs there
was of no real use to her here。 Her watch； for example；
was a constant source of surprise to her； and at the age
of sixtyfive she was still amazed at the ascendancy which
rules and reasons exerted over the lives of other people。
She had never learnt her lesson； and had constantly to
be punished for her ignorance。 But as that ignorance was
bined with a fine natural insight which saw deep
whenever it saw at all； it was not possible to write Mrs。
Hilbery off among the dunces； on the contrary； she had a
way of seeming the wisest person in the room。 But； on
the whole； she found it very necessary to seek support in
her daughter。
Katharine； thus； was a member of a very great profession
which has； as yet； no title and very little recognition； although
the labor of mill and factory is； perhaps； no more
severe and the results of less benefit to the world。 She
lived at home。 She did it very well； too。 Any one ing to
the house in Cheyne Walk felt that here was an orderly
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Virginia Woolf
place； shapely； controlled—a place where life had been
trained to show to the best advantage； and； though posed
of different elements； made to appear harmonious
and with a character of its own。 Perhaps it was the chief
triumph of Katharine’s art that Mrs。 Hilbery’s character predominated。
She and Mr。 Hilbery appeared to be a rich background
for her mother’s more striking qualities。
Silence being； thus； both natural to her and imposed
upon her； the only other remark that her mother’s friends
were in the habit of making about it was that it was
neither a stupid silence nor an indifferent silence。 But to
what quality it owed its character； since character of some
sort it had； no one troubled themselves to inquire。 It was
understood that she was helping her mother to produce a
great book。 She was known to manage the household。
She was certainly beautiful。 That accounted for her satisfactorily。
But it would have been a surprise； not only to
other people but to Katharine herself； if some magic watch
could have taken count of the moments spent in an entirely
different occupation from her ostensible one。 Sitting
with faded papers before her； she took part in a
series of scenes such as the taming of wild ponies upon
the American prairies； or the conduct of a vast ship in a
hurricane round a black promontory of rock； or in others
more peaceful； but marked by her plete emancipation
from her present surroundings and； needless to say；
by her surpassing ability in her new vocation。 When she
was rid of the pretense of paper and pen； phrasemaking
and biography； she turned her attention in a more legitimate
direction； though； strangely enough； she would
rather have confessed her wildest dreams of hurricane
and prairie than the fact that； upstairs； alone in her room；
she rose early in the morning or sat up late at night to …
work at mathematics。 No force on earth would have made
her confess that。 Her actions when thus engaged were
furtive and secretive； like those of some nocturnal animal。
Steps had only to sound on the staircase； and she
slipped her paper between the leaves of a great Greek
dictionary which she had purloined from her father’s room
for this purpose。 It was only at night； indeed； that she
felt secure enough from surprise to concentrate her mind
to the utmost。
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Night and Day
Perhaps the unwomanly nature of the science made her
instinctively wish to conceal her love of it。 But the more
profound reason was that in her mind mathematics were
directly opposed to literature。 She would not have cared
to confess how infinitely she preferred the exactitude；
the starlike impersonality； of figures to the confusion；
agitation； and vagueness of the finest prose。 There was
something a little unseemly in thus opposing the tradition
of her family； something that made her feel wrongheaded；
and thus more than ever disposed to shut her
desires away from view and cherish them with extraordinary
fondness。 Again and again she was thinking of some
problem when she should have been thinking of her grandfather。
Waking from these trances； she would see that her
mother； too； had lapsed into some dream almost as visionary
as her own； for the people who played their parts
in it had long been numbered among the dead。 But； seeing
her own state mirrored in her mother’s face； Katharine
would shake herself awake with a sense of irritation。 Her
mother was the last person she wished to resemble； much
though she admired her。 Her mon sense would assert
itself almost brutally； and Mrs。 Hilbery； looking at her
with her odd sidelong glance； that was half malicious
and half tender； would liken her to “your wicked old Uncle
Judge Peter； who used to be heard delivering sentence of
death in the bathroom。 Thank Heaven； Katharine； I’ve
not a drop of HIM in me！”
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Virginia Woolf
CHAPTER IV
At about nine o’clock at night； on every alternate W